To Mrs. Morris and the General the sight, from the old elm-tree seat, was even fairer than to the youthful group whose forms stood out against the sky, the floral colors of the girls’ draperies heightened by the western light.  For a while the two sitters gave the perfect scene the tribute of a perfect silence, and then the General asked, as he cautiously straightened his impaired frame, “Has not Isabel been making some—­eh—­news for herself—­and us?”

The lady’s lips parted for their peculiar laugh of embarrassment, but the questioner’s smile was so serious that she forced her sweetest gravity.  “Why, General, according to our Southern ways,” she said,—­every word mellowed by her Southern way of saying it,—­“that’s for Isabel to tell you.”

“Then why does she not do it, Mrs. Morris?” asked the veteran, who had been district attorney himself once upon a time, and was clever with witnesses.

“Why, really, General, Isabel hasn’t had a cha—­Oh! ho, ho!  I oughtn’t to have said that!” Mrs. Morris had a killing dimple, but never used it.

“I suppose—­of course”—­said the General, “she will say it’s—­eh—­Arthur?”

“Now you’re making me tell,” she laughed, “and I mustn’t!  General, Godfrey seems to be going.”

In fact, Godfrey was shaking hands with Ruth and Leonard.  Now he took the hands of Arthur and Isabel together, and Mrs. Morris laughed more sweetly and with more oh’s and ho’s than ever; for Isabel sedately kissed Arthur’s brother.

Ruth made signs to her father, who answered them in kind.  “What does she say, Mrs. Morris?  Can you hear?”

“She says they’re singing ‘your hymn’ down in a church under the hill.”

“Ah yes.”  He beamed and nodded to Ruth; but when Mrs. Morris once more laughed, his brow clouded a trifle.  “Your daughter, Mrs. Morris”—­

The lady broke in with a note of bright surprise, rose, and took an unconscious step forward.  The five young friends were advancing in a compact cluster, with measured pace.  Ruth and Isabel, in front abreast, and making happy show of the hawthorn sprays, were just enough apart to conceal, except for their superior height, the three lovers, and in lowered tones, but with kindling eyes, the five, incited by Ruth, were singing the song they had caught up from the valley,—­the old man’s favorite from the days of his own song-time.  The General got himself hurriedly to his feet; the shade passed from his brow.  The group came close; he stepped out, and Isabel, meeting him, laid her two hands in his, while the halting cluster ceased their song suspensively on a line that pledged loves and friendships too ethereal to clash.

“Isabel,”—­he turned up a broadened palm,—­“here’s my amen to that line; where’s yours?”

With blushing alacrity she laid her hand on his.

“Arthur!” he called, and the lively lover added his to the two.  “Now, Ruth!”